


Blue Light Filter

by fiordilatte



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bi-Curiosity, F/M, Galaxy Garrison, Masturbation in Shower, Other, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 05:18:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11890857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiordilatte/pseuds/fiordilatte
Summary: Lance explores his sexuality because that Gunderson guy is heckin’ cute.  The shower’s as good a place as any.





	Blue Light Filter

**Author's Note:**

> Set pre-canon from Lance pov, so Lance still thinks that Pidge is a dude. This can also be read as Lance’s much sillier response to theorycrafting :) Confusion abounds! Title is a bad joke about Lance’s ‘night mode’ HAHA
> 
> mood: Loco Enamorado by Abraham Mateo lmao

_¿Que bola?_ Fade in to a Wednesday evening at Galaxy Garrison, fall semester. Classes have been (mostly) attended, pizza has been ingested, sick pep talks have been given, and Lance Tirado has decided that maybe he is a tiny bit bisexual after all. This is the result of due consideration, heavy deliberation, and a fuckload of masturbation. Is it possible to get friction burns on your dick?

This spicy Latino fighter pilot saunters across campus, his sneakers treading on concrete as the bite of cool autumn weather cuts into his thin-but-stylish jacket. He enters the hallway that leads back to his dorm, Hunk and Pidge flanking him - and for a few minutes they’re almost like a real team and not a motley gang of misfits suffering slipping grades. Lance imparts words of wisdom to his crew in the form of ‘girls are cute’ and ‘Pidge, buddy, don’t hack into the sim lab on our next exam, _goddamn_.’ Gotta enforce that team bonding. Work together, fly together, die together in a shining supernova while screaming their own trademarked catchphrases. Ride or die.

They take slow steps, so he can savour the feeling.

* * *

Lance calls dibs on the shower tonight - Hunk says fine and Pidge lives in a separate dorm in the A-wing because he is literally the worst, so it’s not really a point of contention. Everything else be damned, this team is run as a democracy.

From the corner of the room, Pidge can be seen loading up a case with heavy-and-suspicious-looking equipment. Sometimes he uses Lance and Hunk’s dorm as a personal storage unit and it sucks. “Just... gonna grab my stuff and leave this B-team dorm,” he says, making a vague gesture to his box.

“This is the B- _wing_ , not the B-team!” Lance howls into his hands. He points an accusatory finger at the shorter boy. “We’ve been over this! Besides, all the other teams live together in one dorm, but nooooo, you had to be weird and special.” Maybe Pidge just doesn’t like sharing bathrooms.

“Yeah dude,” Hunk pipes in mock-hurt, taking a seat at his bed by the far wall. “Not cool. Think about the rest of your _team!_ ” He and Lance are roommates this year, and it’s one of those relationships that works out very nicely because they don’t get on each other’s nerves and they agree on almost everything.

Pidge just rolls his eyes and resumes organizing his equipment. Cute. “I’m here right now, aren’t I?” Mouthy, too.

“So you gonna ask us for help or what?” Lance says, craning his neck to peer at the box’s contents. He’s often wondering what Pidge gets up to when he’s busy not being a team player.

“Negative,” the other boy responds, always quick to sidestep as much social interaction as possible. Gunderson’s pretty strong for his size, though; Lance has never seen him in the change room but he’s willing to bet there’s a six pack hiding underneath that huge sweater. Not that he thinks about seeing Pidge shirtless all the time or anything.

The sandy-haired boy stomps out the door unceremoniously, his short arms barely long enough to hold the box aloft. He’d better not be building a bomb this time. The other cadets from neighbouring dorms always report them for bad behaviour, and God knows how many demerits their team has already racked up.

“Suit yourself,” Lance says to the door, just as it clicks shut. Okay, ouch.

The brunet dumps his schoolbag at the foot of his bed and hops onto his bunk. He’s still got plenty of stuff to do before lights out, and the Garrison is notorious for its intensive and course-heavy programs. Maybe he’ll finally crack open that astrophysics textbook instead of just copying Hunk’s homework. Pidge, meanwhile, puts in even less effort than Lance, citing ‘more important things to do’ and choosing to only show up for sim lab and exam days like a smartass. He’s the Garrison’s cram king. On the rare occasion, Lance can drag Pidge away from his computer(s?) for a team dinner ‘meeting,’ but that’s pretty much it before he holes himself up somewhere on the rooftop. For a comm spec, Pidge sure is terrible at communication.

There’s a piloting practical exam at the end of the week, which is specifically Lance’s area of responsibility as team captain of Squadron G. Most first year astro explorer assignments revolve around three core roles: Fighter Pilot, Communications Officer, and Mechanic. Lance tried out (multiple times) for the pilot position until he made the cut, flying having been his number one goal since forever. He hasn’t gotten too familiar with specialized fighter models yet, thanks to his stint in Interplanetary Logistics last semester, which means that he’s really only flown cargo ships so far. Despite his constant bitching about being set back a year, Logistics was actually pretty nuts. Stretch wrapping freight pallets in zero gravity simulation was a heck of a time.

Still, thank God for transfer credits and second chances - the astro explorer certification at Galaxy Garrison is no joke, dude. It’s basically a globally recognized space license. Once you’re certified, you can whisk girls out for a night of off-planet fun. Maybe. He’s seen the brochures.

“Oh what the hell?” he mutters, feeling a sudden but familiar strain in his purposely-tight jeans (they are _not_ jeggings, no matter what anyone says). To be fair, he is also a horny piece of shit who defies standard Garrison dress code on an almost daily basis, so the discomfort is partially his fault. After all, science dictates that it is much easier to hide a hard-on in a baggy cadet uniform, and Lance doesn’t fuck with science. Damn you, surprise boners!

Whatever. Hunk is watching cooking videos and Pidge is gallivanting around campus conducting crazy experiments, so it should be okay to rub one out in the shower. A quick look at his phone’s clock tells him that he has about twenty minutes to get this out of his system before it gets suspicious. Dick logic is dumb, and so is Lance. But hey, it’s not like he ever lasts that long. Twenty minutes is plenty of time. He grabs a fresh change of clothes from his clean laundry hamper and barrels toward the washroom, boner hidden from view with a strategically placed towel. He steals a backward glance at his roommate, who seems to be engrossed with his tablet. Does Hunk know? He totally knows, doesn’t he?

The bathroom in their B-wing dorm is about as neat as a bathroom that’s shared by two teenage space cadets is going to be. (Or: Hunk tries his best, but Lance is sometimes a slob.) Coolsies. It’s a small, cramped area, most of which has been claimed by Lance’s esthetician-level collection of skincare products. He could probably open up a spa here. A few used towels have been halfheartedly heaped into the laundry hamper, and tubes of toothpaste and hair gel are strewn across the counter.

It could definitely be worse - at least astro explorer teams get to share suite style dorms, which is pretty awesome as far as things go. As a cargo pilot last year, Lance was stuck with using communal showers and running through hallways with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. Well, sometimes he’d forget to bring his towel, but the point still stands. When they get deployed for actual space missions they won’t be getting any of these luxuries, so he’ll be enjoying them while they last.

“I wanna bang Pidge,” he whispers to himself, from the precarious safety of the thinly-walled room. Saying it out loud lends a strange certainty to the concept, and although he would prefer to have his sexuality clearly defined as ‘unbendably straight, like a lance,’ he’s too curious to keep his dick wondering for long. Despite his attempts to quash his feelings, Lance has been harbouring a secret, very confused fascination for Gunderson, triggered by his predeliction for short, adorable people with anger issues. He’s just so _mysterious_ , which makes him endlessly attractive in a snarky avoidant data geek kind of way.

He leans over the counter to scrutinize his face in the oval mirror: still no signs of facial hair developments, but his skin is looking smooth and clear in spite of the stress of the daily grind. Having a consistent routine pays off. He always exfoliates.

Lance strips quickly, throwing his shirt and jacket onto the towel rack. He’s still really skinny, but he’s been trying his best to get bigger this year. This will finally be the year of the super shredded Lance. So far he’s got abs from surfing and dancing, and his arms have gotten more toned thanks to some seriously brutal Garrison training. He does a little hip roll in front of the mirror - just because he can, just because those fucking dance lessons his older sister signed him up for are permanently embedded in his muscle memory. Muévete, muévete, muévete....

His pants come off with a little more effort, skintight denim clinging to his legs - but at long last, his dick is free and fully intact. Stepping into the shower stall, Lance turns the knob and watches as a stream of lukewarm water dribbles from the showerhead. There’s a plastic caddy that’s suctioned to the wall and filled to the brim with half-empty shampoo and conditioner bottles, all neatly labelled in permanent marker with his name. For the most part, Lance is happy to share his things, but hair care is sacred. He likes to use a lot of conditioner, to ensure silky smooth locks that don’t have split ends.

Besides excessive hair care, there are two things that he loves doing in the relative privacy of the shower: singing cheesy pop songs and jerking off. Not necessarily in that order, and not usually at the same time, but both equally important to the Lancey Lance lifestyle. He yanks the curtain shut.

To be perfectly frank, Lance is primarily a titty guy, often caught up in the allure of soft curves and firm grabbable mounds of flesh (to be woefully poetic). He’d motorboat them if he could, gladly die with his face pressed up against a perfect pair of breasts, happily suffocate himself in the pillowy softness of D-cup dreams. Lofty aspirations. Then there’s Pidge Gunderson, who has no titties and is scrawny and weird and so, so heckin’ cute. Also he is a dude, and oh god isn’t that just super. Is that gay? Does it _matter?_

Lance imagines that cute little mouth wrapped around his dick, and he wants to die. He cranks the heat up, wiggling his toes in the direct line of water. Still a bit cold, but he can wait.

For all his bravado, he is not particularly big in the dick department. This is especially bullshit considering his name is _Lance Tirado,_ and lances are supposed to be pretty long. Like, what’s so hard about that?! He’s done extensive comparisons and dick measurements, researched countless articles, and watched a hell of a lot of virus-riddled porn. But Lance digresses, because he still has needs and shit. At least he’s tall.

The water temperature’s good now, and it feels amazing running down his scalp, cascading down his sore shoulders, flowing over his cock. He palms his erection gently, groaning a little at his own touch. To start, Lance gently works a slippery bar of soap around his groin, making a valiant effort to stifle his voice.  He knows full well that Hunk has definitely heard him in here before, and good roommates don’t subject their friends to gross moaning noises if they can help it.

Gunderson’s face flashes in his head again, and there’s a definite throb of arousal at the thought.

Pidge will probably flip him off during the act, his pretty hazel eyes set in a permanent glare as he teases Lance’s erection (using the hand that doesn’t have a middle finger pointed at him, of course). _You’re ridiculous,_ Gunderson will say, his jaw set in a scowl. He’ll roll his eyes, too. _You thirsty, thirsty pleb._

Dude, he thinks, running his hand over his rigid cock and sighing, you have no freaking idea. Ridiculous isn’t the worst thing he's ever been called, and plebeian stings but is fair game. He clicks his tongue and fires some finger guns off in the direction of the tiled wall. So show me what you got, Gunderson. He can’t tell if he’s blushing or if it’s just the steam.

Despite talking relentless amounts of smack, Pidge will still continue with the blowjob, his small pink tongue darting out to taste the tip.

 _Scared I’ll bite your dick off?_ Gunderson will ask. He’s really comforting that way.

Normally this would be a huge turn off, but Lance thinks his dick just got harder, which is so fucking worse. _Maldita sea._ Great, now he has a thing for teeth on his junk. See, people _do_ change.

In his head, Pidge will wrap one small hand around the base and stroke lightly but firmly, brushing his thumb against the tip while Lance casually forgets how to breathe. Doesn’t seem like Pidge’s style to say anything that’ll inflate his ego; he won’t coo over meaningless dirty talk or fawn over size parameters. He’ll just be matter-of-fact, cupping Lance’s balls and finding all his weak spots with his deft little fingers. Maybe he’ll, like, surgically rip his dick off, too, just to assert dominance, but that’s to be expected. Still hot though.

His mouth will be warm, almost inviting - soft rosebud lips engulfing Lance as his knees go weak. He moans, tugging his swelling cock, breathing in more shower steam. A thin film of soap forms on his erection as hot water envelops his body.

Pidge’s teeth scrape along his delicate skin, careful but deliberate. It’s a pleasant sort of threat; _don’t fuck with me and I’ll make you feel really good._ Pidge might even blush, too, in the heat of the moment, his careful façade of not giving a fuck betrayed by dumb hormones. The thought makes Lance dizzy. That small face flushed pink with embarrassment as he sucks Lance off, his eager mouth taking him in deep. He imagines pale knees pressing into the tile, pictures smooth thighs dotted with freckles and angular hips that jut out ever so slightly.

If he could, he’d cum on Pidge’s face right here and embrace all the consequences, watch as it drips down his glasses and slides down his cheeks in thick strands. Pidge will be _pissed_ , but he’ll look so damn hot that Lance won’t mind getting his ass kicked right after. His voice gets louder again, and he bites his lip hard to quell the noise.

He soaps up his loofah, working coconut-scented suds into lather. Dragging the sponge across his skin in a circular motion, Lance scrubs himself from head to toe - arms and legs and abs and every crevice in between. Microbeads slough away all the grime and sweat from today’s training sessions, and water calmly sluices down the drain.

He wonders how guys do it. Do they just take turns? Maybe they’ll flip a coin, or go by a height rule. Maybe they’ll just jerk off together, cock against cock. It’ll be nice. Dignified, even, in the way that horny teenage boys are absolutely, unironically capable of being. They’ll go slow, get used to each other first. Find a nice, relaxing rhythm. Put on some reggaeton and get those hips moving. He’s not a fucking _animal_.

Masturbating isn’t a very emotional thing for him to do (he does it almost every day), but he can’t deny that it feels a bit confusing today. He doesn’t normally jerk off while thinking about guys. But if he wants Pidge... well, uh, he wants Pidge. Would banging his own teammate break any Garrison ethics codes?

He wants to run his hands through that gross, greasy mess of hair - and shampoo it. He needs to lean down and kiss Pidge Gunderson on the lips and and murmur, in sultry dulcet tones, _I want you_. And god, the snark he’ll get in response, paired with a classic, _Fuck off, Lance_. He exhales. This does nothing to alleviate his arousal. But Pidge is cool. Pidge is smart and cute and determined, and Lance wants to hold his hand and stuff.

The brunet sighs and grabs a bottle of shampoo, squeezing a generous amount into his palm. He uses both hands to massage it into his scalp, lacing his fingers in thick dark hair and gently lathering. It smells like mangoes and summer - and for all intents and purposes, yes, Lance does enjoy smelling like a fruit.

He thinks about showering _with_ Pidge, and how it might be strangely sensual to slip his fingers into those sandy shocks of hair and grind against him under running water. It’ll be like a sexier, hotter version of rainy makeouts, one where they don’t catch hypothermia and end up fighting colds the next day. They’ll kiss like the lovers on those telenovelas his Mom watches, soft and romantic with a pinch of steamy melodrama. He’ll brush his thumb along Pidge’s jaw, and kiss him like he really means it.

Then the next day, they’ll go into sim, and Squadron G will finally rise to its rightful place at the top of the class - and that’s the biggest turn on of them all.

Lance has a few secrets that he keeps close to himself, even though he has a big mouth with regards to basically everything else, ever. Often he just overcompensates and flirts around campus as much as he can. There are plenty of attractive girls who would be happy to hook up for a night if he tried hard enough. But it’s all surface stuff, cosmetic; he wants to talk the talk and commit some other time. ‘Cause deep down, beneath the crippling uncertainty and oddly specific fantasies, he’s scared that he’ll have an identity crisis and forget who he’s really supposed to be.

Right. So. Less soul searching, more conditioner. Come tomorrow morning, his hair will be silky and radiant. Lance turns the temperature down to finish his shower with a cold rinse, and he shivers at the sudden contrast. He needs to keep a clear head.

 _Keep going, Lance,_ Pidge goads him, from the back of his head. _You’re not done yet._ The stream of water continues its steady course down his skin, clean and non-judgmental. He wonders if Pidge - the real one - would enjoy watching him like this.

His hand finds its way back down to his erection, and he closes his eyes, focusing on reaching climax. He thinks of skinny hips and slender legs, of nimble fingers and awfully sarcastic blowjobs. The pace quickens; he feels himself getting close.

“Oh my god,” he hisses, putting all of his weight onto the wall. Too much. When he comes, he’s almost silent, his body shuddering through orgasm, hips bucking against cool tile. Sticky strings of cum spill through his fingers and slide down the drain, and he’s helpless. He stands there for what seems like a long time, just listening to the sound of cold water washing over him. Is this how it’s gonna be for the rest of the semester?

* * *

The mirror is fogged over with steam when he steps out to towel himself off. He’s clean, fresh as a daisy, although he certainly doesn’t feel more relaxed. His gut twists anxiously, but he pushes it back down. After all, the evidence is gone, and it’s as though nothing ever happened. He’s totally innocent, right? Pulling his bathrobe over his lanky body, Lance slides into his slippers and doesn’t turn back.

He shuffles out of the bathroom and and flops onto his bed. “Hunk,” he calls out, feeling rather guilty. Water drips from his freshly conditioned hair. “Can I copy your homework?”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! I like to think this is the real reason why Lance was so shocked when Pidge came out as a girl lmao bye


End file.
